


When Hope Dies (Living the Dream Outta Spite)

by SandandSeas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sam's a little shit that knows about everything.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandandSeas/pseuds/SandandSeas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Dean had lost his smile to a bullet and a bottle of Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Hope Dies (Living the Dream Outta Spite)

 Somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Dean had lost his smile to a bullet and a bottle of Jack.

 

Sam noticed it first. Sam always noticed when it pertained to Dean and his quote-unquote _feelings_. But Sam never said anything about the thing Dean did with his mouth that was more a baring of teeth then a smile.

 

Dean learned from a young age that the Life was going to be the thing that killed him; the only question was when. Settling down and being normal was simply out of the question. So while his dad was busy with being a vindictive bastard with a side order of unhealthy obsession, Dean buried whatever dreams his heart had and spat at the grave they made. Meanwhile Sam tried to runaway by escaping to Stanford.

 

Tried being the operative word. No one actually just ups and leaves the Life. It's like a fishing hook wedged into the soft palate of their mouths, barbed and sharp; it can and will reel you in, no matter how far you swim.

 

Sometimes, Dean wants to give in to the pull; to let himself be dragged out of the muck and just die. Go to his little slice of heaven where the beer is the good, expensive shit and he never has to worry if he and his brother were going to survive the week. Lately, when he feels more like dead tissue and whiskey rotted organs, the pull is there, tugging his hand to his gun.

 

But for some reason, he doesn't give in. He knows that through the depression and blood splattered nights, there's this burning desire to live, even if it's just outta spite.

 

Dean doesn't speak about Hell. Sam stopped asking when he experienced it for himself. There really aren't many words to describe the pit, and Dean would be too ashamed to utter them even under his breath. So yeah, no one knows about Dean's time there. They don't know that when Dean gets that faraway look in his eyes every now and then, he's thinking about the poor fuckers he sat up on the rack, and sliced their skin off, piece by piece and enjoyed the way their screams resonated in his ears, because at least it wasn't him.

 

No one knows...except Castiel.

 

And fuck, does that piss Dean off to no ends. Because whereas everybody else is in the dark about how fucked up Dean really is, Castiel knows. Has seen the scars upon scars where bone had been snapped apart and veins cut open. He had grasped Dean by the forearm and literally dragged him out of hell. And Dean can't stand that, y'know, that something like Castiel can see him in such a state of fallen humanity, and forgive him,  _save him._

 

So, he tell himself, “Don’t get attached.” because people that Dean lets worm under his skin and gnaw a nook into his heart have a horrible trend of being snatched from him.

_Mom_

_Dad_

_Jo_

_Ellen_

_Ash_

_Rufus_

_Ben_

_Lisa_

_Bobby_

  
  


Each time they take a piece for the road, leaving him with less and less.

 

But damn, Cas doesn't just worm his way, he fucking plows in, making a gaping hole smack dab in the middle of Dean's chest, and Dean can't help but like it. Cas, for all his eccentricities and complete lack of understanding in all things sarcastic, he's one of the best things to grace Dean's life.

 

Of course it was Sam who noticed first, that perceptive little shit.

  
  


“You're in love with him.” Sam has that shit-eating grin like he's finally one-upped Dean in this screwed up game of LIFE that they play. 

  
  


“No I'm not!” Dean responds, slamming the door shut behind him and dropping a bag of fast food on the table with his keys. “Who am I not in love with?”

  
  


“Castiel.” Sam says this like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, fire is hot and Dean Winchester is in love with Castiel. 

  
  


Dean's face scrunches up into three separate states of a grimace,“What? Hell no dude, why would you even say that?” He collapses in the nearest chair of yet another low-end motel, luckily this one seems to be relatively stain free, and pops open a beer. More so to give his hands something to do then pull at his hair. 

 

Sam rolls his eyes and shuts his laptop with a soft click, “Denial isn't pretty, Dean.” 

  
  


“I ain't in denial. Where's this all coming from anyway?” Dean immediately regrets the question the moment it's out of his mouth, because Sam adopts that soft, knowing expression he gets when he's about to break into some chick-flick worthy spiel. Dean hated that look, it always made him feel like he just kicked a puppy. 

  
  


“Dean...”

  
  


Dean stands up and moves towards the bathroom, ignoring how Sam's eyes follow him “I'm hitting the showers dude, don't forget we're meeting with the coroner tomorrow morning.” 

 

“Fine, be that way.” Sam huffs, opening his laptop once more to glare at it. “But when you come out from under that rock of yours, you owe me fifty bucks.”

 

Dean snorts and nods because he thinks it’s absolutely impossible, even though he feels like he's running away as he shuts the door between him and Sam.

 

Three weeks, two vengeful ghosts, one shifter, and a par of demons later, they get wind of this case in northern Michigan. Dean has seen his fair share of small towns, but this one took the metaphorical cake. It seemed that corporate America had yet to sink it's teeth in this little dirt-stained gem. The town was older than most of its occupants. 

  
  


Either way, Sam ditches him and Cas in favor of digging up some information in the local archives, and Dean decides to sniff around the field in which three missing teenagers had last been seen. Cas tags along because drudging down in the muck with Dean was more fun than whatever shit was taking place upstairs.

  
  


Cas doesn't talk about Heaven, much like Dean doesn't talk about Hell. For different reasons obviously. Dean likes to think its because God's a dad of the deadbeat variety, and Castiel isn't ready to handle that. 

  
  


Either way, they're in this field, and Dean has dead corn stalks crunching under his boot and the hot afternoon sun beating down on his back, heating up the leather of his jacket to the point where it was almost unbearable. 

  
  


“Dean.” Castiel murmurs into Dean's ear, and Dean wouldn't have jolted if Cas hadn't been halfway across the field moments before.

  
  


“What?”

  
  


Castiel motions in front of him, Dean follows the length of his arm and the tip of his finger with his eyes and down the line directed towards the willowwacks of the forest. Dean raises his eyebrow, and then he sees it.

  
  


“What is that?” Dean moves forward, squinting as he heads towards the edge of the forest. It dawns on him as he moves through the few rows of oaks and pines that what he was seeing was the side of a small church. 

  
  


Somewhere inside him, he felt like he should have brushed it off and went back to solving the case, but it was hot and he was about done with life for the afternoon. 

  
  


He walks around the corner of the building and finds the door. The white paint was chipping and the handle was rusted to a gritty texture that scratched against Dean's palm. 

 

The inside of the church was bare, with a few pews on either side of the main aisle. A couple of book shelves were set up in the far corner, and the entire area was covered in a thin layer of dust that swirled around Dean's foot when he stepped inside. 

  
  


“Wow.” Dean wasn't one for marveling at the beauty of architecture, and this place certainly wasn't one for the books, but even Dean had to give props to whoever made these windows. There were seven of them, three on each side, each vibrant and detailed, but the winner certainly had to be the final and largest one on that spanned the area behind the alter. It took up the entire wall, and because it faced west, the sun was filtering through, rays of sharp sunlight tinted with reds and blues and greens and golds. The depiction of wings, made of angles and a variety of shapes branched out from an angel with it's hands steepled in prayer. 

  
  


“Strange.” Castiel leafs through one of the books near the shelves, “While the rest of this church has suffered the effects of time, these books are brand new.”

  
  


Dean moves forward to the last pew to the left, finding a bible sitting on the bench. He picks it up and flips it open. The smell of freshly printed paper leeches into the air, and Dean blinks in surprise. He turns to the front where the copyright was printed and the year 1912 is bold at the top of the page.

  
  


Castiel walks forward, stepping up onto the alter and pausing as he squints at a particular word on the page, and where he stood, blocking the angel in the window, the wings seem to billow out from between Castiel's shoulder blades.

  
  


The sun moves out from behind the clouds, the room grows brighter, and a halo of light surrounds Castiel's form.

 

Dean suddenly can't breathe.

 

Of course, Castiel chose that moment to glance up and tilt his head to the side like he did when something Dean did stumped him. “What is it?” he asks as he sets the book to the side and glides over to Dean. Castiel never learned the thing about personal space, he always needed to be reminded.

 

“Cas.” he croaks, “Personal space.”

  
  


Dean catches a look of disappointed mixed in with the same look of understanding. Like Castiel had forgotten and had been all too happy to live in ignorance. And he still has the fucking nimbus of light crowning his head. 

  
  


“My apologies.” Cas says as he takes a giant step backwards. Dean is slightly concerned on how he misses the closeness. 

  
  


“There seems to be an enchantment on this place.” Castiel continues, and Dean barely hears him, he's hyper aware of everything. The dark wisps of hair around Castiel's crown, the shadow of hair against his jaw, the crook of his nose, the dip of his lips, and the blue of his eyes. 

  
  


Dean hears Sam laughing as the smack of the realization resounds inside his head.

  
  


Cas was in mid-sentence about magic and spells and what have you, when Dean darts forward to kiss him.

  
  


He misses by an inch, hitting the rough corner of Castiel's jaw. Castiel looks something akin to shocked when Dean pulls back to try again, catching soft lips between his. It was awkward, their noses bumped and teeth clacked, but then Cas does that head tilt thing again and Dean feels his knees go weak. 

  
  


Cas takes a step forward, reclaiming the area lost to Dean's personal space, and he presses in, warm against Dean's chest, and Dean drowns out Sam's smugness with the sound of Castiel's heartbeat against his. 

  
  


Later, after the case is solved, Sam is brandishing a crisp new fifty and Dean finds his smile in the juncture of Castiel's throat.

 

 

Fin.

  
  



End file.
